Snuffles
by TouchedBytheAngel
Summary: A fluff!fic written for and inspired by my best friend and felllow writer Katana Belle. In which Sherlock discovers the cause of early-morning snuffles and how useful they can turn out to be...


**Snuffles**

Katana-Belle and Paradox

**Disclaimer: Read the fanfic, and we think you may change your mind about ownership rights. Just…go to the end. Just **_**do **_**it!**

**And just for the record, we were quoting David Tennant, not Nike's silly motto which was **_**clearly **_**stolen from the poor timelord.**

John came down the stairs, hair ruffled from his earlier shower. Wrapping himself more tightly in his green robe from the 36*F weather of the London morning, he went into the kitchen. Some tea would be nice…hot tea with extra caffeine. Apparently the Americans had these popular cafes called Starbucks' that served both coffee _and _tea. John wrinkled his nose. Why did the British only get the McDonalds?

As he brewed his tea and sat down on the countertop to wait, he heard a disconsolate _sniffing _noise coming from the couch. Warily, he slid off the countertop and crept over to that piece of furniture, eyes narrowed.

The sight he saw, however, assuaged his fears and even made him smile a little.

Sherlock was curled up on the couch, snuffling disconsolately and looking extremely grumpy.

"Sherlock? You're on the couch…" John noted with a touch of wonderment.

"One of your finest deductions, John," Sherlock grunted.

John grinned. "What's with all the snuffling?"

"Don't know," the sociopath sighed. "It started when I woke up. I have no idea what's causing it."

"Well perhaps getting up at the crack of dawn to carry monkey's urinary samples to Bart's wasn't helping," John said drily.

Sherlock scowled. "Science, John, is the only thing that's keeping me from pulling out a pack of cigarettes and smoking myself to _death._" He glared up at him. "I'm sure that would make you happier."

"Um, rather the polar opposite," John answered quietly.

Sherlock just grunted again.

John's tea kettle started whistling and he hopped off to grab a cup, pulling out an extra one for Sherlock. He came back into the living room a few minutes later, carrying the two cups and a consoling smile. "Drink up…might help the snuffles."

Sherlock did not look convinced but he took the cup anyway and sniffed at it. "Did you drug it?"

"Now why would I do that?" John inquired innocently.

"Every and any reason at all. Or, at least, I would to _you,_" Sherlock pointed out with a shrug.

John just rolled his eyes and sat down on the couch next to him, curling up with his hot tea.

Presently Sherlock seemed to unwind a bit and stretched out next to him, finishing the warm drink.

"Yes…that may have helped," he admitted. "A bit."

John smiled in satisfaction. "Eaten anything?"

Sherlock shrugged again. "I ate yesterday."

John looked horrified. "Then you have to eat something! Your immune system will lower itself and you'll have sniffles _all _the time," he wheedled.

His flat mate's eyes narrowed. "Is that supposed to convince me?"

"Well, you're welcome to analyze your snotty tissue and run lab tests at Bart's and even ask Molly if I'm right," John said mildly, "but I am actually a doctor."

"_My _doctor," Sherlock sniffed. "You could be lying to insure that I eat."

"And therefor refrain from starving to death. Yes, I'm an awful person," John smirked. "What sounds good?"

"A triple homicide and a locked-room murder," Sherlock said promptly. "And a back-rub."

John sighed. "Well I'd rather not supply the first two, but if you eat something I'll give your shoulders a bit of a rub," he promised.

Sherlock paused, weighing the options.

"…Fine," he agreed finally. "But I get to choose portion size."

"Not a chance," John smiled, going into the kitchen.

He knew Sherlock sometimes enjoyed a bowl of oatmeal with honey when he deigned to eat in the mornings, so he pulled out a bowl for the purpose thereof.

"Honey or sugar?" He inquired, thus asking, "_Is oatmeal okay?_"

"Honey. As always," Sherlock responded, therefore answering, "_Yeah, whatever, oatmeal's fine."_

John mixed up the oats and ladled out the warm goo, drizzling honey over it, and sticking in a spoon carried it out.

Sherlock was laid out on the couch again, inspecting a tissue with a suspicious substance contained within. John winced slightly but handed him the bowl with no comment.

Sherlock lifted the spoon to his mouth, sniffing again.

"You're welcome," John said sardonically.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, you are aware of my methods of expressing sentiment."

"Saying Thank-You isn't sentiment!" John protested.

"But gratitude _is,_ and you know I find it repulsive that the eventual doom of our society is treated with such honour," Sherlock responded.

John just sighed and set down his empty mug. "Okay, if you want me to get the tension out of your shoulders, you'll have to actually sit up."

Sherlock levered himself into a sitting position, his knees hunched up to his chest as he ate.

John rubbed soothing circles into his shoulder blades, making him sigh.

"That…does feel rather nice," he admitted.

"Oh, dear me, we're not feeling _sentiments, _are we?" John shot back with a grin.

"Of course not." Sherlock snapped. "A little higher."

John smiled and moved his hands up, rubbing his best friend's shoulders until they relaxed, tension slowly dissolving.

"Better?" He inquired as Sherlock finished his oatmeal.

"A bit," was the only reply. But the way it was said intimated something rather like, "_Yes, thank you."_

John understood.

After he cleared away the dishes, he came back into the living room with his laptop, enjoying the morning calm of a Friday off. He cuddled up into his favourite spot on the couch, opening the lid and beginning to type with two-fingered precision.

"Wha're you doing?" Sherlock demanded presently.

"Blog," John responded, forehead wrinkled in concentration.

"Ah." Was the helpful response.

There was silence for a few moments, broken only by the sound of careful clicking.

"What's the blog about?" Sherlock inquired, long limbs splayed out like some disconcerted grasshopper.

John smiled slightly. "Us."

"You mean me."

"No, I really meant us."

"Everyone knows what that means, John."

"I think you're the only one suffering from that delusion."

Sherlock sighed.

John finally looked up. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Sherlock rejoined grouchily.

"Which always means something," John put mildly.

"'M tired," Sherlock finally responded.

John looked pleased at this unusual release of information. "Okay…need to go up and sleep?"

"Don't feel like moving," Sherlock grunted.

John shrugged. "Take a nap here then."

"But my shoulder will hurt again," his flat mate complained.

"…Want me to move?" John asked, noting he was taking up space on the couch.

In answer Sherlock stretched out further, head shooing the laptop out of John's lap and replacing it with his head.

"Oi!" John protested, trying to move him off.

"Mph." Sherlock simply yawned.

John tried to move him again with a half-hearted effort, then gave it up.

Sherlock lay back with a satisfied smirk. "Teach you to use a laptop so much."

John scowled. "I'm going to write a blog entirely dedicated to what a pain in the arse you are."

Sherlock just smiled.

"Why do I even put up with you?" John sighed.

"Because you can't help it."

John's head lay back as he rolled his eyes, but the tiniest of smiles pulled at his mouth.

Five minutes later Sherlock was snoring, curled up on the couch, head in John's lap.

John looked down again, smile blowing into a smirk.

"Teach _you _to stay out all night with urinary samples."

**See? See? We OWNED that fanfic. Get it? Huh? Huh? No? Fine. *huffs* We still don't own BBC. But I suppose we can't all be heartless sociopaths…**


End file.
